Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  My back slammed against a horizontal beam. The vampire was over me, a slab-cold layer pressing down. Even through the haze of his presence, I had enough control of myself to rail, to scream, even if that thrashing only raged within my head.

  He was going to drain me. He would tear open my neck, my life would leak out, and he would live on for an eternity more. The one end I always expected, the one end I dreaded most, was now.

  I could still feel the dagger in my grip. Even though I couldn’t move, I could still feel it biting into his body. This might be the end, but at least I could delude myself into believing I would die fighting back.

  The roof beyond exploded. Fire erupted around us, raining down from above in a hellish storm. The beam beneath me cracked, slipping a span as all around the web of knots and platforms gave way. Splinters like arrows plummeted from the ceiling, falling along with burning shingles. Amid the firestorm, the dark tide in my mind receded. Rivascis’s will slipped away.

  My body burned. My legs especially felt seared. Even beneath my cloak, my skin throbbed. Miraculously, the falling debris had avoided me thus far. Snapping my neck to either side, I realized I was still a prisoner.

  Rivascis’s claws, smoldering in seared rags, dug into the wood to either side. He held himself over me, staring into my face—I avoided meeting his eyes again. Embers rippled across his clothing. Through his side jutted a metal jag the length of a small spear.

  He could have avoided that. My dagger stared from his chest, buried in him up to its steely bird skull. That wasn’t preventing his escape, though. If he’d dropped me I probably wouldn’t have realized it until I was bleeding out on the ground. He could have fallen himself, then walked away without a wound a moment later. Still, he stayed.

  The air sizzled. He burned. It smelled like chemicals, like sulfur. The flames crackled, but died soon after exploding. Despite that, the light they brought didn’t die.

  I shifted and sunlight blinded me. A hole tore through the roof, angled to catch just the crest of the dawning sun. It fell over me, hazy and cold. Yet where it touched Rivascis, the vampire burned. He twisted away from me, away from the light.

  I didn’t let him.

  Both my hands closed on the dagger skewering him, holding him in place. It wouldn’t take long.

  His claws were on me, peeling away fingers. His nails scraped skin, but I held tight. He was so much stronger. I couldn’t hope to overpower him, but I didn’t need to. Pain shot through my hands as something snapped. I held tight.

  “Larsa.” He said my name like a command, but there was a desperate stitch. I ignored it.

  More pain. Unbidden, one of my hands dropped away.

  The smell of sulfur intensified. The stony shade of his face began to char, pristine marble blackening to shale.

  At least two of my fingers refused to move. I ignored the pain, even as he broke another finger gripping the dagger. I groped inside my cloak—I didn’t have long. My thumb twisted backward. I screamed when it gave way.

  Not just from the pain.

  From the depths of my cloak, I heaved the last of Kindler’s antique wooden stakes, forcing it up with an open palm. It struck just higher than the silver blade inching from the vampire’s chest.

  But it didn’t enter. He’d caught it between us.

  “Larsa.” His eyes met mine, gray and dusty. “You can’t blame me … for wanting to feel alive.”

  Gritting, I hammered against the flat of the stake. “You’re not worth blaming anymore.”

  My palm struck, bone cracked.

  His grip slipped, and the stake drilled into his skin. Faded eyes widened and a centuries-old body trembled. The convulsion passed in an instant. His thin lips stretched in a smile—one that hid his fangs. “Ailson … I knew you’d always follow.”

  “I am not—”

  It didn’t matter. Whatever fire the sun set within his kind did its work. His features sparked, skin crisped, then it all silently burned. In withering eyes, something pooled then slipped. As the cinders of his face fell, one charcoal-strained tear caressed my cheek.

  His body lost its shape, his clothes sagged, and from empty rags my father’s ashes buried me.

  50

  ASHES

  JADAIN

  Oh, don’t fuss, I can do it—I can do it myself!” Considine sputtered as I dragged him by the leg away from the single ray of sunlight piercing to the box house’s floor. He might have said he could, but I wasn’t so sure the way he’d whimpered when the stray crack of dawn-light splashed over him. Regardless, I released him into the shadows.

  “Thank you!” He tried to reclaim his dignity, standing with a frown and brushing down his outfit—particularly the pants leg I’d just released. A splinter had torn a considerable gash. “Well, it was already ruined, I suppose. This has turned into a surprisingly costly night.” His expression turned wistful, and he quietly turned away.

  I thought better of it, but asked anyway. “Are you okay?”

  Was I trying to comfort a vampire? I’d pray for forgiveness later.

  The dead man chuckled dismissively. “Of course.” He followed it with a sidelong smirk, but it faded fast. “You know … you could have put an end to things back there. Using that dagger again, that was a nasty trick.”

  I scanned his face, mostly his eyes. They were green—not even a particularly spectacular shade—but in the moment they looked sincere enough. “Yeah. And you just laid there after Larsa took it out the first time. You could have turned into fog and slipped away. Why didn’t you?”

  “Just curious, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  He grinned. “Whether or not you’d try and burn the wicked out of me, I guess.”

  I didn’t return his smile. “I thought about it.”

  “But you didn’t.” His grin widened enough to show one of his sharp canines. “Doesn’t your goddess insist you destroy things like me—abominations, life and death, all that? But you didn’t.”

  I nodded.

  He gestured toward my scar. “Brand’s starting to suit you, eh? We are what we wear.”

  For the first time in days, I’d forgotten the mark. I traced it gingerly. It was tender, but didn’t burn like it had. “Everyone’s a heretic to someone.”

  Were he a devil straight from the Pit, Considine couldn’t have given a more insidious smile. “That’s why you’re my favorite. Which reminds me …” He waggled a finger. “You owe me a favor.”

  Now he sounded like a devil, too. I supposed I had agreed to get him to cast his spell, even though I doubted he’d have honored such a tenuous bargain if our positions were reversed. Regardless, I waited to hear my sentence.

  “Well, I could …” A sharp nail tapped curling lips—he was drawing it out. Eventually, he just shrugged. “I’ll have to think on this. I’ve never needed a favor from a priestess, but now that I’ve got one, I’ll have to come up with something worthwhile. You’re off the hook for now.”

  Somehow that made it worse.

  I turned to the heaps of rigging and catwalks piled in the bare taproom. Thick dust filled the air, drifting through beams of sunlight piercing the perforated ceiling. It piled in ashy drifts across the floor, creeping into every crack and floorboard. I could just make out Larsa, sitting with her back against one of the rafters above. Even from our vantage below, it was clear what had happened to Rivascis.

  “You all right up there?” I called, immediately covering my mouth afterward. The thought of breathing in vampire ashes made my soul nauseous.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t move at all. Understandable, I suppose.

  “We should give her a few minutes, but I think I might need your help getting her down.”

  “That, my dear, is your problem.” Considine straightened his tattered vest. “Right now, I deserve a drink.”

  I turned my frown on him, but the wisps of ground fog were already dispersing.

  51

  DUST

  LARSA<
br />
  The frame of Kindler’s front door was thoroughly charred and in need of much more than a fresh coat of paint. But it wouldn’t need the attentions of Jadain’s fellows in the clergy. When we returned to Kindler’s home, any evidence of Tashan’s corpse was gone. Considine was the only suspect in the disappearance, but somehow that seemed fine to both Jadain and me.

  Kindler had found her way home as well. She offered us tea at the door and didn’t ask any questions. Jadain gave her all the answers she could have wanted. Neither asked me to say anything. I closed my eyes and leaned back in one of Kindler’s hard armchairs. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but when I started at Jadain’s touch it was well after midday.

  We returned to Troidais House. For the next two days, I kept to the cellar and mostly slept. Jadain oversaw Rarentz’s recovery, treating him like a patient in his own half-empty home. I could hear them talking and occasionally laughing softly in the kitchen above.

  I expected to have unpleasant dreams. I expected Rivascis to repeat himself behind my eyelids, to try and make amends again—but he didn’t. Vampires cast neither reflections nor shadows, but I wondered what other impressions they didn’t make. Somehow I was already having trouble remembering his face.

  More than once, I took the length of twisted black enamel from my pocket. It had been the only thing that hadn’t blown away amid the dawn light. For nearly anyone else, Rivascis’s wand held a curse, the hand of death frozen in its tight coil. It was the only mercy Rivascis ever granted me. I used it to heal my shattered hands, but after that I just stared at it. His ashes encrusted its cracks and whorls.

  In my ledger of scars, I knew one kindness didn’t undo years of torture. Still, it felt like a parting gift, an apology that came too late. I accepted it—at least for now.

  I decided to tell Jadain I was leaving for Caliphas. I wasn’t obligated to. Our partnership—as tenuous as it had been—was over. Her agreement with Doctor Trice to look after Kindler was fulfilled, as was whatever part of it I’d accepted. But she’d earned the courtesy. More than that, she followed when I chased Rivascis into the dark. I owed her.

  Rarentz was there when I came into the kitchen. They stopped their conversation.

  “How are you feeling?” Jadain asked over her patient’s shoulders. She was wearing more of Lord Troidais’s work clothes.

  Rarentz twisted at the table. A bandage covered his eye, but nothing elaborate—he seemed like the sort to have a brush with death and emerge with nothing more than a dashing scar. He offered a polite nod and an empty seat.

  I declined the latter. “Well enough to travel. I’m headed back to Caliphas.”

  A beat passed.

  “So soon?” Soft surprise tinged Jadain’s voice. Her bandage was elaborate, masking most of the right side of her face. I shifted my stare, but it was too late. She turned her head a self-conscious inch.

  I nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  “The coach is still at Miss Kindler’s.” She turned to Rarentz. “Would it be too much of a bother for you to prepare it for us?”

  The nobleman gave a dismissive sniff and touched his bandage. “I don’t think that settles our account, but I’d be happy to.”

  She’d misunderstood something. “You don’t need to come.”

  Her bandage shifted as her brows went askew. She turned to Rarentz. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  He nodded and slipped past me, out of his own kitchen.

  After he was gone, the priestess motioned toward his empty seat. I settled my hands on the back, but didn’t sit.

  Worry was plain in her eye. “Why are you rushing back?”

  “It’s been two days. It’s hardly a rush.”

  She just grimaced.

  What did she expect from me? “Why would I stay?”

  “You’ve never had anything pleasant to say about Caliphas, or your people there. This could be something new—a fresh start. You could stay here, get to know Miss Kindler … she’d probably like that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?” It was clearly an accusation—one I’d been considering quite a bit over the past few days.

  I swallowed my annoyance. I wasn’t good at this, but Jadain had earned an answer.

  I pulled out the chair and crossed my hands on the table. “Rivascis called me a slave for serving both the Royal Accusers and Siervage. But it was easy to brush off. I knew there was more to me.” I stared at my fingers. “At least, there was while he still ran.”

  Only Jadain was in the room, but I felt like I was in front of a jury. “Hunting him, I did for myself. I hated him since before I knew him. I made him into the monster I blamed for every terrible thing in my life. The promise of ending him dragged me through so much. But now that he’s gone, all that’s gone, too. I’ve finished him, but part of me wants him back.”

  Jadain put her hand out, not touching mine, but close. “You’re mourning your father. That’s only natural.”

  I laughed at the ludicrousness of it. “I didn’t realize you could mourn someone you killed. I’ve wanted to put a stake in him my entire life. Now that I’ve done it, I’m … empty. I’m nothing.”

  “You’re not nothing. You’re free.” Her voice was soft, but steady. “He hurt you, and you’ve struggled with those wounds for a long time. For the first time ever, now he can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “But that’s all I was. I let them think I was their tool to kill vampires, but I wasn’t. I was my tool to kill him. Now he’s gone and my use for myself is over. Now I’m just someone else’s pawn.” My hands clenched. “I am a slave … just like he said.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I glared up.

  “You’re the most determined person I’ve ever met.” She pitted a smile against my grim look. “Maybe, in a way, that did make you a slave, a prisoner of your own hate and bad memories. You set a gigantic, terrible task for yourself, but somehow you’ve achieved it. That doesn’t mean your life’s over, it means now it’s really yours. Those old pains aren’t gone, but you don’t need to be dragged along by them anymore. What’s next is up to you. It’s finally your turn to make your life mean what you want it to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like whatever you want. That’s the hard part. We’ve got a long trip back to Caliphas, though. I’d be happy to help you figure it out along the way.”

  She still didn’t get it. “Our job is over. You don’t have to come with me.”

  “I know.” She said it as though it’d been obvious. “But it’s my calling to comfort the mourning and help those searching for their fate—doubly so when they’re friends.” She patted my hand.

  I fought back the reflex to yank away.

  Her touch was light and warm.

  It wasn’t so bad.

  Both Jadain and I had stops to make before heading to Kindler’s home in the morning. I didn’t ask after hers and she didn’t intrude on mine.

  My business took longer than I anticipated, and it was approaching noon by the time I reached Bronzewing Row. I’d planned to be well out of the city by then. Nevertheless, I found myself staring at Kindler’s door, and not just because of the man-shaped scorch mark. If my life was going to mean what I chose, I couldn’t bury just half of my past. I swallowed and shouldered through the sagging door.

  Kindler’s home was perpetually dusty—somehow it seemed even more so than before. From the lounge stared all her memories—tiny keepsakes, curios, books, other treasures. Over the fireplace stared a woman who looked like me, and the living faces of four monstrosities I’d destroyed myself. It was unsettling to look at them again. It must have been worse for Kindler. I didn’t linger.

  Upstairs, the door to Kindler’s library was open a crack, enough to see she’d already lit the fire. I knocked lightly. When no one answered, I pushed inside.

  Posture rigid, attention fixed, Kindler sat at her desk conducting a quick quill across a page. I approached softly and watched her w
rite. She looked like Diauden, channeling her face’s intensity into scratches of ink. I wondered if my abrupt departure from the capital had inconvenienced that scheming old spider. I hoped it had.

  “Bound for home, then?” Kindler didn’t look up, her pen going through the motions of a polite conclusion.

  “That’s right.”

  “It won’t be out of your way to deliver this, then.” She nodded to the page.

  “Maybe. It’s a big city.” I’d had my fill of errands and letters.

  “It’s for Trice—a firm reminder that I’m retired. Also a warning about the arcane wards I’m adding to my gate and what they’ll do should any visitor even so much as whisper the word ‘Pathfinder.’”

  I looked over the page. The salutation read, To my worst student.

  “I can make sure it finds its way.”

  “Thank you.” Her signature was merely a dash followed by an “A” that was more flourish than letter. “And what about you? How sure is your way?”

  “I suspect we’ll be avoiding Kavapesta on the way back, but that shouldn’t make the trip too much longer.”

  Brows pinched apprehensively over the rim of her glasses.

  I puffed, dismissing the look. “It’s a bit late to start being motherly.”

  The look vanished as she placed her glasses on the desk. “I suppose. Still, even at my age, there are days I could do with a bit of mothering.”

  As proud and proper as she was, I couldn’t imagine Kindler wanting help from anything more than a servant. Even the admission seemed like a confession. “It’s just not something I’m accustomed to.”

  “Me either, it seems. I suppose you’re right, and we’re too late for all that anyway.” She gave a small smile. I appreciated that she didn’t sound wistful.

  I nodded politely. “About a lifetime too late.”

  She saw her letter into an envelope, pressed a candle-flame-shaped seal into wet wax, and stood, presenting it to me. “Here you are Miss …” Her own words distracted her and she let the letter slip back to the desk. “I hate that you don’t have a last name. Just ‘Larsa’ seems so improper.”